


Interludes in Himring Preview - Aglon Pass

by ArvenaPeredhel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Armor Kink, Fingon just wants to be a gothic heroine okay, M/M, Post-Battle Makeouts, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, the official song of this fic is the Exit Eden cover of 'Total Eclipse of the Heart', the one time in their lives they probably don't use enough lubricant, this is a segment of a larger fic that I just needed to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:39:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23526268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel
Summary: The Battle of Aglon Pass is a frightful thing, and Maitimo needs to do something with all of the stress it's given him. A preview of a much longer planned fic, detailing all the times Findekáno visited Himring during the Siege of Angband.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 10
Kudos: 87





	Interludes in Himring Preview - Aglon Pass

**Author's Note:**

> This is an excerpt from a fic that's currently much more "outline" than "WIP", but I had to get this out there. I'm reasonably certain that I had a hand in Fingon's armor kink becoming a thing. and the idea for this scene is part of where that headcanon came from.

Findekáno didn't know whether the battle was going well or badly. He had been more or less unceremoniously dumped into the large, drafty bedchamber where he now sat with orders not to leave, and while there was a pair of windows that overlooked the great black emptiness that was the Aglon Pass, he couldn't see anything in the darkness below. Maitimo had ordered him to stay hidden, and had locked him in when he had argued; earlier, he had defied his husband's insistent commands and lit a candle and opened those windows on their hinged shutters to try and get a better look at what they were facing. That had ended badly - he had been shot at twice, with the arrows still on the floor where they had landed. He let the archers think they'd hit their marks, blowing out the candle and waiting half an hour at least before inching along the wall to close the windows again, and ever since then he had been waiting in the dark with only the Moon for company.

 _And what inconstant company it is,_ he thought to himself miserably, watching as the clouds parted for a few moments and sent pale light streaming down across the floor. _If only the night were clearer, perhaps I might see how we are faring._ He did not truly worry that Himring would fall - the fortress was far too well-guarded, even now with more than half its garrison emptied onto the walls - but he was concerned about casualties. Nighttime battles were ugly, bitter things, and often ended just as badly as they began. And this beginning was particularly bad.

They had not known about the army in the Pass until it was very nearly too late. This attack, unlike so many other feeble strikes, was a proper attempt to break the leaguer, and it had silenced every sentry stationed along its path save one, who nearly killed his horse riding back along the treacherous mountain paths to carry word to the keep that they would soon be under attack. Thankfully, Maitimo had prepared for this (Maitimo prepared for nearly everything, Findekáno realized) and his only true shock was having his husband and Crown Prince as a guest. They had fought bitterly over whether or not the both of them would be armoring up to fight, with Findekáno insisting it was his right and Maitimo insisting just as vehemently that he had to stay behind. Maitimo had won, in the end, with the argument that he had made oaths to the High King to protect and serve the royal line, and as a result, protecting and serving the royal line meant 'Finno you ass stay out of the battle'. His husband had not been pleased with this conclusion, but he could not exactly _argue_ it, and so, here he was, locked in a spare bedchamber and left totally alone.

He had tried and failed to sleep, and tried and failed to distract himself with song and story, and at last he had raided the closet of his prison out of boredom and found a robe crafted of mauve-colored satin, which he had changed into for lack of anything better to do. It was almost too large for him; he managed it with a bit of strategic knot-tying, though he knew that one well-placed tug would send the whole thing falling to the floor around where he stood. _I'm almost sorry Russo isn't here to take advantage of that,_ he thought, sitting on the edge of the bed and beginning to undo his many braids. _It's the sort of thing he would enjoy too much. But I suppose the battle_ is _more important._

Hours passed, and Findekáno was just as restless at their end as he was at their beginning, but he had at least managed to let his hair down. It was in need of a wash and a brush, and while he could not provide the former he hoped he might comb it out a little with his fingers. The sky had cleared while he worked, and he could see the stars through the windows, and Tilion was setting behind the mountains and filling the whole of the room with silver in imitation of Telperion before him. _It's turned into a lovely night,_ the _nér_ realized. _I only hope..._

There was a sound of metal on metal off to his left, and he flinched and almost shrank back against the high wooden bedpost. He became painfully unaware that he was unarmed, save for the heavy candlestick made of wrought iron that was sitting abandoned on an end table by the window; why he had let Russandol so incapacitate him was beyond his comprehension now. As soon as the fear rose up in his throat, though, it faded; this was no orc pounding on the door and demanding entry, this was the sound of a key in a lock. And indeed, the next thing he heard was a door opening, and the sound of someone stepping into the room and closing said door again behind them. _You are being foolish,_ he told himself, rising from the bed and moving towards the end table just in case. _If it_ is _an intruder, you won't be able to do much more than bash their skull in, and if it is_ not? _You will look quite the fool!_ But he was nervous, and anxious, and so he took a few steps closer to the far wall and risked being totally illuminated by the moonlight for the sake of a weapon in arm's reach.

The lock turned again, sounding unnaturally loud in the darkness; from this angle, Findekáno could see that there was indeed someone else in the room with him, but he doubted it was an orc. _Say something!_ he thought at himself, trying to force a sound out of unwilling lips; instead, he watched silently as the figure turned and straightened up and was suddenly too tall to be anyone except -

_Russandol._

He wasn't sure if he said his husband's name aloud, or merely thought it, but the other _nér_ didn't answer him. There was some tension in the silence, something unspoken binding them together, and when Russandol looked at him the fading moonlight caught his eyes and made them seem as if they were crafted of molten silver. Meeting that burning gaze made Findekáno weak in the knees, and suddenly he was hard and aching and longing for something he could not quite name, and his breath was coming faster and his heart was pounding in his ears. For a moment, both of them were still, and then his husband crossed the floor and closed the distance between them in four steps. Before Findekáno quite knew what had happened, there was a hand in his hair and an arm at the small of his back, and he was lifted off of his feet and pressed against the wall by the window, and his mouth was being thoroughly plundered by familiar lips.

 _"Russo,"_ he gasped, as soon as he was able, once teeth and tongue had moved on in favor of marking up his neck, "you - !"

His voice broke off into a low moan, sounding far more needy and desperate than he thought he was. He had already been hard before, but now he was in blazing agony, and the hand that had been trailing through his hair had tightened into a demanding fist, and there was a thigh wedged between his legs. He could see his husband gleaming in the pale light, unyielding and lordly and still clad in his armor; the sight set his blood to sparking and he could feel his marriage-bond surging to life behind his eyes. _I know you worry that you are hideous,_ he thought, and wondered how he could think with Russandol's mouth working its way down his shoulder, _but right now I have never wanted you more, nor found you more desirable._

The other _nér_ was tense, and angry; Findekáno could feel the frustration building in him like a storm. _Bed,_ he thought, trying to squirm out from beneath his husband, _otherwise we will wind up coupling here and now, like this,_ but all his efforts to move were halted by hand and arm and mouth. Russandol said nothing to him, instead sinking teeth into the hollow of his collarbone; he whimpered, and felt himself unravel, torn between the blissful friction of the robe against his aching cock and the sharp pain of the bite.

 _Please,_ he thought, casting himself out into their bond, though he barely understood what he was asking for. _Please._

He felt Russandol's answer in a surge of heat and a rush of motion; before he knew what had happened, he was on his back and staring up at the ceiling, and his husband was on top of him, fumbling with his belt. He tried to sit up, offering his own hands, but he found himself shoved into the mattress with a gauntleted forearm and met with a silvery glare. The _nér_ above him lifted his left hand up, tugging off a dark glove with the same teeth that had been occupied with the business of Findekáno's shoulder just moments earlier; when that was done, Russandol tossed it aside and drew out a glass vial from a pouch that had been hanging from the belt in question. This, too, was opened with the aid of an eager mouth, and Findekáno realized what was going to happen to him when the contents of that vial were spilled out over his husband's pale fingers.

He cried out when the first of them slipped inside him, his back arching up and his whole body shuddering. Their lovemaking until now had been slow, and gentle, but this was hard and demanding and would accept nothing else than the whole of him, and he wanted _more._ Russandol seemed to know it, too, adding a second finger, and then a third, working him open quickly and firmly, watching him writhe on the bed. His husband was above him now, stern and implacable and kissing him again, bracing himself against the mattress with his right arm. Findekáno realized for the first time how much _larger_ the other _nér_ was than him, and somehow that thought only made his need greater. He could feel _nómilt_ dripping down his cock, staining the borrowed robe, and when Russandol withdrew his hand to work again at undoing belt and trousers, he thought he would weep from the emptiness and the ache in his hips.

And then his husband slid into him, hard and hot and all at once, and he would have screamed if the sound hadn't been muffled by lips covering his own.

The world bled out to white-hot sensation in an instant, drowning out all else; he could feel Russandol moving within him, could feel the hand pinning both his wrists to the mattress above his head, could feel the mouth that had swallowed all his cries returning to its work of bruising his neck. The whole of him moved with every thrust, forcing him to rut against his husband's armor, and every touch of steel on satin on skin left him dizzy and whimpering with a need that quickly devoured everything else.

"Russo," he moaned, drawing out the last _o_ until it filled the whole of his throat. _"Russo -_ !"

He came quickly, hard enough that the bright sparks of their bond seemed to explode into starlight behind his eyes, and he dragged his husband after him. Russandol sagged against the mattress, not quite collapsing but not quite upright, and when they had bled back into themselves, Findekáno sat up long enough to pull the both of them properly onto the bed.

"I thought - I thought you were dead," Russandol managed at last, draping one arm over Findekáno and holding him close. "I saw your window open, and I saw the candle go out, and..." His voice trailed off, and he pressed a kiss to the back of his husband's neck.

"Oh," Findekáno answered, craning his head back to look at the other _nér._ "I - no, no, Russo, I'm not even hurt."

"I can see that _now,"_ his husband informed him. "That doesn't mean I wasn't furious with you when I found you very much alive."

"I stayed in here. I did what you told me."

"You nearly got shot."

"But I didn't."

Russandol sighed, and Findekáno knew he had won the argument. _The important thing,_ he told himself, _is that we are_ definitely _doing this again._

_Hopefully next time doesn't involve any actual peril._


End file.
